


First Kicks

by loveinallthismess



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinallthismess/pseuds/loveinallthismess
Summary: It’s certainly not the strangest thing Tim has ever done, but it is a hobby Armie hopes he’ll be finished with soon. He’d broken down and called Nicole about it the other day, hoping to gain some insight into her son’s sudden apparent interest in feng shui.“He’s nesting,” Nicole supplied. “I was the same when I was pregnant.”





	First Kicks

**Author's Note:**

> Mild mention of pregnancy induced illness. Full warning in end notes

 

 

It’s blissfully warm when Armie steps inside the apartment, his body involuntarily shivering away the last of the brisk Manhattan air as the feeling finally returns to his fingers. He shrugs off his coat and drops his messenger bag on the side table, only for it to fall to the floor with a loud bang.

“Fuck.”

Armie stares affronted at the spot where the table used to be and where his hopefully still intact laptop is laying now. It’s the third time this week he’s come home to a house of musical chairs. He’s almost afraid of what he’s going to find as he pads, sock-footed down the short hallway. One thing Armie’s certain he won’t see is Tim, long limbs curled under a fluffy blanket watching reruns of The Great British Bake-Off, where Armie had left him mere hours ago.

The living room is a mess. There’s potting soil on the ground from the yucca plant Timothée insisted on buying. The television lays canted against the opposite wall from where it hung this morning, cords limp and tangled on the floor, completely disconnected from the DVR. Armie frowns when he notices that the heavy leather sofa has also been shifted, dragged haphazardly across the floorboards so it now faces the window.

It’s certainly not the strangest thing Tim has ever done, but it is a hobby Armie hopes he’ll be finished with soon. He’d broken down and called Nicole about it the other day, hoping to gain some insight into her son’s sudden apparent interest in feng shui, or as Armie had lovingly referred to it, “he keeps moving our shit around all over the place.”

“He’s nesting,” Nicole supplied. “I was the same when I was pregnant.”

As Armie understood the process, nesting was intended to create a safe, comfortable space for their child. Whatever Tim was doing appeared more intent on creating as big of a mess as possible and blaming the ensuing disaster on baby brain. On Tuesday, Armie watched in awe as hurricane Tim turned their entire apartment upside down, searching fruitlessly for a photo album he’d sworn blue was hidden in one of the moving boxes they’d yet to unpack.

“It was right fucking here!”

“Timmy, it’s okay. We’ll find it.”

Armie had to admit he was mildly alarmed when five minutes later Tim’s determined demeanour had collapsed into loud heaving sobs. Tim cried reasonably often, unashamedly tearing up at movies, and that one commercial with the dog which seemed to play on a constant loop on NBC. This was soul crushing. Armie’s protective hackles raised immediately, fear settling low in his gut that something was wrong.

He very nearly brained himself on the coffee table, tripping over a box and skidding on his knees over to where Tim was sat in a heap on the floor. Armie doesn’t know where to put his hands, feeling clumsy and large instead of soothing. It’s a relief when Tim drags him close, manages to wipe his snot onto the sleeve of Armie’s t-shirt.

“It’s at my parents’ place,” Timothée whines, still gasping for air in between sobs.

He nudges Tim up with his shoulder, cradles his face between his palms. Armie can feel his distress ebbing, his chest loosening. He lays his hand on Tim’s belly, pulls him in close with his other hand caressing the dip of Tim’s lower back.

“You’re okay.” It’s almost a statement.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Tim murmurs.

“Yeah,” Armie chuckles lightly, earning himself a jab in the sternum.

He’s been through two pregnancies with Liz, but still he’s never seen the widely vacillating moods Tim seems to flit between.

Armie leaves the living room mess for later and finally manages to locate the hallway table, now sitting idly next to the kitchen entrance. There’s an empty vase on it. The kitchen is noisy, Tim’s blaring hip hop nearly drowned out by the exhaust hood running full bore above the stove. Armie leans against the door jam and watches Tim sway for a minute, slowly and at odds with the music, clearly absorbed in whatever he was making.

Tim’s wearing those ugly sweat pants that cost more than Armie’s best pair of shoes, the waistband slung low on his skinny hips. The loose tee he has on clings to the gentle curve of his stomach which has well and truly popped now.

Tim bends to retrieve what looks like a casserole from the oven, one of the few bonuses of the nesting phase. Armie smiles and wolf whistles loudly.

“You know pregnancy is doing great things for your ass.”

Tim cocks his hips a little more, gives it a shake before depositing the Dutch oven carefully onto the bench.

“I made dinner,” he says proudly.

“I can see that.” Armie lets himself be pulled into the room like Tim is a magnet, plastering himself to Tim’s back, arms immediately wrapping around his waist to rest on the bump. He smells warm and sweet when Armie nuzzles in behind his ear. Says, “you know you’re not supposed to be doing any heaving lifting.”

“It’s only a pot.”

“Not what I mean, Love.”

Timmy’s jaw flexes. “I just thought the couch would be nice if it was closer to the window so I can sit in the sun in the morning.”

Tim’s pregnancy has been designated high-risk. Accidental, but certainly not unwanted, Armie spent the first six weeks after they’d found out Tim was expecting in a state of near constant panic as he watched Tim suffer through morning, noon, and night sickness; throwing up at all hours, unable to sleep, not keeping anything down. His weight had even dipped below normal and Armie felt like the worst human in the world when the doctor told them that although Timothée obviously possessed the carrier gene, his body may not be compatible with pregnancy and if the symptoms worsened their only option would be termination. Thankfully the sickness mostly tapered off after Tim passed into his second trimester.

They eat and Tim falls asleep on the couch before Armie can figure out how to get the damn television hooked back onto the wall. After nearly dropping the whole thing on his foot, he somehow manages to get it to stay in place, and Armie really doesn’t want to think any more about Tim getting it off the wall in the first place. He carefully picks Tim’s legs up, sliding himself under them and sagging into the cushions.

The television turns on and the white balance setting is off so all the people look slightly red. He’ll fix it tomorrow. Tim is snoring lightly, which was also new to the last few weeks. Apparently pregnancy induced sinusitis is a thing. Swollen feet he already knows about. Timmy’s socks have pink polka dots on them. Armie tries to hit each spot as he massages Tim’s feet.

Tim groans, presses his foot back more firmly into Armie’s grip. “Mmm, that feels so good. S’its better than sex.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tim grins, eyes peeking open. “That was praise for your massage skills, not an indictment of your sexual prowess.”

Armie flips him the bird and crosses his arms over his chest, trying to hold out while Tim digs his toes into Armie’s thigh, getting dangerously close to his groin. Armie grabs his foot again, pulls down a sock slightly so he can press a kiss to bare skin.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He shifts to the edge of the couch, shuffling out from under Tim’s legs.

“Good idea.” Tim stretches but makes no move to actually get up. “You can give me a demonstration of your sexual adequacy so I can compare. You know… for science.”

Tim’s skin is flushed with a rosy glow. His cheeks pinker than the rest of him. His hair is somehow even thicker and shinier than it’s ever been, curls just long enough to brush along his jawline. The swell of his pale skin is still free of stretch marks, a sliver revealed where his shirt has rucked up. It does something primal to Armie, that knowledge of a claim being made, and as much as Armie tries not to entertain that way of thinking, it’s still an electric feeling that this incredible, beautiful, man is now forever connected to him by the human both of them created growing inside him.

Armie wants nothing more than to take Tim to bed and ravish him. He wants to devour him whole and keep him from the world so he can have Tim all to himself. But he can see Tim’s irises starting to hide behind his lids. The poor kid’s exhausted.

He’s about to help Tim up when he suddenly bolts upright, both hands flying to his bump.

“Holy shit! Armie!”

Armie stumbles as Tim grabs his hand, holding it to the side of his stomach. And there it is, a tiny little press beneath him palm. A staccato tap, one, two, and then gone. Armie keeps his hand there. Tim’s face is an inch from his, too close to focus on, but Armie knows Tim can see just how wide his smile is.

He drags Tim in, crushing him into his chest while a mantra of “I love you, I love you…” slips through his lips almost unconsciously.

Tim laughs a wet giggle, wiping at Armie’s face and then his own. He glances down at his stomach again. “That feels so weird, you know?”

Armie nods, but he doesn’t know. He can imagine though.

“I’ve been feeling little flutters for a while,” Timothee adds, “but this is a whole new sensation.”

“I’m so proud of you.” Armie presses a kiss to Tim’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, anywhere he can reach. There’s a swell like the ocean imbibing his body with strength and compassion. He feels like he could and would protect Tim from any harm that might befall him. Protect Tim and their unborn child.

Armie chuckles as Tim’s brow scrunches. “Why are you proud of me?”

He kisses his lips again. Once. Twice. “I don’t know. I just am.”

 

***

 

Little Evie toddles along the hallway, slowly, deliberately, her tiny feet turned inward as she tries to step one in front of the other. Armie has her set up with a wooden wagon, the tray loaded down with books so she can use it for balance. She makes it to the door, lets out a questioning babble when the wagon suddenly goes no further, and promptly falls on her diapered bottom as soon as she releases the handle to go and investigate.

Armie quickly scoops her up, but Evie seems more surprised than upset, so he pulls her wagon back to the middle of the room, sets her down and lets her go again. His heart feels like it’s going to burst every time she lets out a delighted squeal at her newfound ability to get around on her own two feet.

By the time Tim gets home, Armie has her strapped in her high chair, plastic plate full of cut up finger sized foods sitting on the tray in front of her. He’d given up on the spoon after the fifth recovery from the floor.

Armie hears Tim put his stuff down on the side table that now lives by the door again before he comes bounding into the kitchen, making a beeline straight for their daughter. Armie’s used to playing second fiddle by now, and he can’t help but smile when Tim instantly picks Evie up and cradles her close, rubbing their noses together and getting batted away with a sticky hand before sneaking in a kiss to her chubby cheek.

“ _Ma chérie, je t’aime tellement._ ”

They look more alike by the day. Evie was born with a mass of dark matted hair that she quickly lost in the first few months. Tim joked that it made her look like an old grandpa with a comb-over. Her curls were coming back with a vengeance now, eyes darkening from baby-blue to Tim’s shade of hazel-green. Evie’s definitely going to be a heartbreaker just like her Daddy. And also like her Daddy, she’s well and truly got Armie wrapped around every one of her tiny fingers.

“Hey, where’s my kiss?”

Tim puts on a pronounced look of surprise. “Evie, have you not given your Dad a kiss today?” He bounces her on his hip and she laughs, clapping her hands together. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to remedy that. Make the sacrifice and all if you won’t.”

Tim puts Evie carefully back in her high chair and shoots Armie a look that is anything but kid friendly.

Armie sinks into him, Tim’s arms coming up to wrap around his neck. Tim bites lightly at his lower lip for the barest of moments before delicately tracing the same path with his tongue. Armie happily grants him access, sighing and using the hand on Tim’s waist to pull him even closer.

He’d missed this, the gentle intimacy, when Tim had gone away for work for the first time since having Evie. It was only a short shoot, a little less than a month, but fuck if it didn’t feel like forever when it wasn’t just them to contend with. Armie had been lucky enough to film in LA for his last project and Evie and Tim had simply come with to the rented house on the coast. Evie had loved the ocean. They’d also been able to introduce her to Ford and Harper.

Tim had wrapped production and come home a little over a week ago and already Armie never wanted him to leave again. He strokes Tim’s chin, thumb rasping over the slight stubble, pulls his chin down and deepens the kiss.

The moment comes to a crashing halt when Evie’s plate hits the floor.

Tim’s head whips around as much as it can with them pressed so closely together. Sourcing the noise and relaxing back into Armie’s grip. Armie steals one more kiss before Tim extracts himself, wiping his mouth and bending to pick the plate off of the floor.

“Well I guess she was done with that.”

Evie looks thrilled with her feat of strength.

“Evie, you can’t throw things around like that,” Tim tries to admonish, but there’s no real heat there.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Armie adds. “I already gave up on the cutlery.”

Tim sighs, stroking Evie’s hair before depositing the plate in the sink and searching for some paper towel. “You get her cleaned up. I’ll take care of this mess.”

“Come on, Darling. Sounds like it’s bath time.” Armie gets Evie out of her chair, but puts her down when she starts to struggle immediately. She takes two steps before plonking down and crawling, leaving messy handprints in her wake.

Tim stares at him, but Armie just shrugs, “what, she wanted to go by herself.”

Tim shakes his head, but it’s fond. “She’s gonna be a fucking menace when she really starts walking.” He starts filling the sink. “You better go before she figures out how to run her own bath.”

Armie returns to the living room in a different outfit with an armful of clean baby about an hour later. Tim’s slumped on the couch trying to read a potential script through crayon squiggles.

“What took you so long?”

“Don’t ask.”

There’s a paper gift bag on the coffee table that Tim must have brought home with him.

“What’s this?”

Tim’s eyes light up. He puts the script aside and takes Evie from him, blowing a raspberry on her arm to make her laugh. “Open it.”

Armie gives him a curious look before picking up the bag, rummaging inside, pushing the tissue paper to one side to pull out a small shoe box. Inside is the tiniest pair of Converse he’s ever seen. They’re light green with little pink watermelons all over them.

“I figured now she’s learning to walk, she’s gonna need a cool pair of kicks, huh Evie?”

Armie offers them to her. Evie grabs one, holds it for a moment, and throws it across the room.

“Maybe we should invest in a baseball glove instead. Kid’s already got an arm on her.”

“Oh, man, that would suck. Baseball’s so boring to watch.” Tim looks at Evie very seriously and Armie laughs when she tries to match Tim’s expression, rosebud lips forming a pout. Tim nudges him with his foot. “Stop, I’m trying to impart some wisdom.” He holds Evie out in from of him, balancing her feet on his knees. “Evie, I’ll love you no matter what, but if you’re going to dedicate your life to a sport, please make it something more interesting. Like soccer.”

Armie groans through his laughter. “God, the only thing more boring than baseball.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is a brief mention of Timothée potentially suffering from Hyperemesis gravidarum (a severe form of traditional morning sickness) and possibly having to terminate the pregnancy.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [paradiseorpurgatory](http://www.paradiseorpurgatory.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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